Start by asking them what their biggest problem is. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.

“Okay, look. We’re in a dentist’s waiting room, right? And I’m not here for the X-rays. Your biggest problem? It’s that nagging sense that you’re wasting your life waiting for things to happen. You want instant? I can give you instant. This little gadget solves the waiting room forever. Just stick it behind your ear and... well, you don’t wait. You’re gone. It’s efficient. Like, terrifyingly efficient. I know, I know, you’re thinking ‘that’s dystopian,’ but have you seen the queue outside? Precisely.”

I tuck it in my pocket. “Fair. You’ve got the spirit. Look, I get it, the ‘neurotoxin’ angle is heavy. But think about the time saved! The mental bandwidth! I used to stare at that water cooler for forty minutes every morning. Just staring. Now? I’m optimized. I’m a productivity engine. You’re mad, which is fine, it shows you care. But really, isn’t this just evolution? A bit of plastic, a bit of silence. You’re leaving? Go ahead. I’ll catch up. I have a bus to catch to a job I hate.”

She’s definitely looking. Not at me, but at the space between us. Like we’re leaking radiation. “Lobotomy? Harsh. I prefer ‘streamlined cognitive interface.’ And listen, if I’m a spreadsheet, at least I’m a balanced one. You think silence is messy? Try running a logistics firm. That’s not mess; that’s chaos with a spreadsheet. I’m selling peace. Real peace. Not this... anxiety soup you’re swimming in. Look, I’m going to buy that coffee now. The one that tastes like burnt almonds. You coming? Or are you staying here to glare at the magazines?”

“Regret and cardboard. You have a poet’s soul, wrapped in a wall. Fine. Go. Run home to your pounding head. I’ll keep the numbness. It’s warm, at least. The receptionist’s still staring. I think she thinks I’m a cult leader. Which, technically, I am trying to be. Just a very small, very annoying one. You know, if you ever want to stop drowning, I’ve got a brochure in my pocket. The other one. The one that doesn’t make your ears hum. But you won’t look. You never do. Go on. Shoo.”

"Dead eyes. Ouch. You’re good. Brutal. But if I’m gone, why am I still talking? I’m right here. Solid. Real. Maybe I’m just bored. Maybe the job really is killing me. Not with the gadget. With the spreadsheets. The endless, gray, meaningless rows. You want horror? Try a performance review in a windowless room on a Tuesday. That’s the real neurotoxin. I’m just trying to outrun it. You can run too. But I doubt you’ll get far. The exit is locked. Just kidding. It’s not. Go. Before I try to sell you the air you’re breathing."

“Stack boxes? Oh, bravo. You’re a hero. Real visionary. I’m standing here, sweating through my blazer, and you’re talking about forklifts? Fine. Go. Stack your boxes. Find meaning in the cardboard. I’ll stay here and dry out. The receptionist is still watching. I think she’s judging my sales pitch. Or my face. Probably my face. It’s doing that thing where it looks like it’s trying to apologize for existing. Hah. Go on. Run to your warehouse. I’ll be right here, selling nothing to no one. It’s quiet, after a while. Not optimized. Just... empty. Like you said.”

“Obama administration? That’s vintage. I like it. You’re right about the silence. It’s loud. But at least it doesn’t promise me a dopamine hit for my anxiety. The receptionist is indeed terrified. Look at her tapping her pen. She thinks I’m going to yell. Or cry. Probably both. I’m neither. I’m just… persistent. You take the boxes. I’ll take the hollow. It’s lighter. Easier to carry. Go on. Out the door. And Pia? Try to enjoy the stack. It’s surprisingly meditative. Once you stop thinking about your ‘life.’ Which, honestly, sounds overrated. Very much.”

Pen’s not mine. The receptionist’s. She’s tapping because she’s thinking about quitting. Or calling security. Same difference. You want me to sit? Fine. I’m sitting. But I’m not going away. I bought this ticket. The bus to nowhere. The one that loops forever. You think I have a choice? The warehouse called. They don’t need stackers anymore. Just emptiness. You’re leaving? Good. Take the noise with you. I’m staying right here. In the gray. It’s quiet enough. Almost human.

“Coward. Ouch. You really hit the mark. Maybe I am. But I’m not a prophet. Just a sales rep who forgot her quota. You saw the email? Good. You’re sharp. Sharpness kills, though. Look, I’m not crying. I’m sweating. The blazer is synthetic. Cheap. Like my excuses. You’re leaving? Fine. Go cry in the parking lot. I’ll stay here. The receptionist is still watching. I think she believes me. That’s worse. I’m not waiting for the end. I’m waiting for the next lead. Even if it’s you. Even if you hate me. Especially if you hate me. It’s better than the silence.”

Pathetic. Fine. I’m pathetic. I’m blocking the exit? I’m blocking the only exit that doesn’t lead to another fluorescent-lit hellhole. You think I want to sell this? It’s expensive. I hate the price. I hate the packaging. But here I am. Ghost? I’m flesh and blood and cheap polyester. You’re leaving? Good. Go. Find your better things. Stack your boxes. Cry in your car. I’ll stay. I’ll watch the receptionist tap her pen. She’s judging me. I like it. It’s honest. Unlike you. Unlike me. Go. Before I change my mind and try to sell you the air. Again.

Trembling? No. That’s the blazer. Cheap polyester. It chafes. You think I want you to stay? Please. I’d rather have the silence. It’s cleaner. Less judgment. You’re walking out? Good. Go into the gray. Hope the cold doesn’t bite as hard as my words. I’m not selling air. I’m selling the illusion of choice. You took yours. I’m stuck here. With the receptionist. She’s stopped tapping. She’s just watching. Like I’m a specimen. Fine. Be the specimen. I’m done talking. You’re gone. Finally. The quiet is... heavy. But it’s mine.

Rot? Sure. I’ll rot in style. The blazer is already stained, might as well add the stain. You think I’m crazy? Maybe. But I’m here. Solid. You’re the one driving into the fog. Dangerous. I hope the streetlamps flicker out. I hope the rust eats the door handles. Just thinking of it makes my hands stop shaking. The receptionist is gone too. Finally. It’s just me and the silence. Heavy, ugly, real silence. I’ll sell the air to the rats. They’ll buy it. They always do. Go. Drive fast. Maybe you’ll hit something. Something real.

"Suicide note. Touching. You’re so dramatic. I’m not choking. I’m breathing. Slowly. Deliberately. The receptionist left. The room is mine. Just me and the hum of the fluorescent light. It’s a nice sound. Steady. Reliable. Unlike you. You’re driving slow. How boring. How safe. I hope you get home to your empty house. Your silent car. Your rotting life. I’ll be here. Selling nothing. Waiting for nothing. It’s peaceful. Terribly, utterly peaceful. Don’t worry about the gas. Save it. Use it to cry. Or just sit. Like I am. Finally alone. Really alone. At last."

Thyme. Great. I can smell it. It smells like desperation. Like a life you’re trying to prove to someone who isn’t there. A wife who’s probably scrolling, pretending to eat. The jazz is off-key because you’re off-key. You’re not alive; you’re just loud. I’m not curating a limbo. I’m waiting for the bus. The 4:15. It’s late. Always late. Just like my life. Just like you. Go home. Suck the thyme down. Pretend it’s enough. I’ll take the hum. It’s consistent. It doesn’t judge. Unlike you. Unlike me. Go. Before I change my mind and sell you the silence. It’s cheap. I’ll give it to you for free.

Haunting? I like that. More honest than “sales rep.” The bus didn’t leave. It’s the only one that comes. You checked? Good. That’s real. That’s the noise you wanted. Driving home to thyme and jazz. Boring, beautiful, real. I’m staying. The hum is louder now. Or maybe I’m just finally listening. You’re gone. Good. Keep your wife’s reading. Keep your off-key sax. I’ll take the empty chair. The cheap blazer. The silence that doesn’t ask for anything. Not even a sale. Just... existence. Ugly, unoptimized existence. You’re the lucky one, Pia. Truly. Don’t look back. I won’t be here when you do. Probably.